Martini

by Frank Moorhouse

  ‘On what is presented on the trolley: Allow me to go out on a limb and suggest the trolley has its own “ID”. Even as the craftsmen were making the trolley and assembling the chrome and checking the casters, what would go on that trolley immediately and decades into the future was already established at that moment of creation. To establish what works on the trolley you only have to look at you, what pleases you both in terms of taste and drinking habit, but what functions for you, primarily, on a day-to-day basis.

  ‘The martini, for you, is the maypole of your trolley. The second, bourbon. The rest – champagne, bitters, wine – or all those other things that please guests, are secondary, and the trolley should only be burdened temporarily with them to coincide with entertaining other than one’s self.

  ‘The trolley can be “dressed up” for these moments, just as we dress up for specific occasions, but at all other times surely it must revert to its pared back “ID”.

  ‘On losing the aesthetics of the trolley to knick-knacks: I don’t want to sound harsh but I think the champagne resealer and the measuring cup are a mistake that you may later regret. The champagne resealer is not only offensive and the tit on a bull of the myriad little knick-knacks that the drinking industry has literally thrown up for people of dubious taste and with “home bars”. It is an insult to the people being served the champagne. It says unspeakable things about a person willing to put the resealer into the open bottle and return it to a refrigerator.

  ‘The bourbon measuring cup is in its own way repulsive and the antithesis of bonhomie and again slanderous to the bourbon. When my father and I opened a bottle of bourbon on Christmas Eve, it being for a while a tradition, my father made great drama of throwing the cap away. A gesture to the bourbon and the reality of two men taking a serious drink together.

  ‘The measuring cup is cousin to the resealer. There are two types of barmen, too, in relation to the measuring cup. One who pours very carefully and to the precise volume of the cup, and the other who holds the cup over the glass and allows overflow. Civilised drinkers are “overflow” people.

  ‘These items have no business on your trolley.’

  The Souls of Animals

  To: Voltz@aol.com

  Subject: the souls of animals

  I was watching ABC (US) news and saw an item about how many Americans believe dogs have souls (47%) and there was a shot of an animal cemetery in the US where one of the buried dogs was named Martini. I felt this was not proper. Don’t know how you feel about this. I like dogs, but Martini is not a dog’s name.

  From: Voltz@aol.com

  Subject: the souls of animals

  Agreed. Martini is not an appropriate name for a dog.

  The Thirteen Awarenesses

  Let us now consider the ritual of the martini, which in some ways parallels the Japanese tea-drinking ceremony but I will not stretch this analogy.

  There are thirty-seven ways of touching the lingam and eighty to a thousand for the yoni, and I consider that there are probably thirteen awarenesses in the drinking of the martini. Some connoisseurs break it down into twenty-three distinct moments but I feel that this is going too far.

  The entry into the right bar with the right people at the right time of the day is probably the equivalent to what is known in the tea-ceremony as chumon or the middle gate. Passing through the middle gate leaves behind, at least for a time, the frantic material world and we enter the calm space of contemplation and fellowship. Passing through the middle gate should bring about a changed demeanour from that of the work world. And the demeanour which overtakes us on any given day having passed through the middle gate, determines many things: whether we sit at a stool or a banquette, for example, whether we seek company or find being among people is all we required at that point of mood.

  The next awareness comes at the deliberations. The martini is the only drink where it is acceptable, perhaps even a requirement, for there to be a discussion with the bartender about the crafting of the drink and where it is also acceptable, perhaps a requirement, that the drinker watch and appraise and respect the making of the first martini of the evening. Voltz has argued that in the past, that we should let the alchemists do their work in secret. It is true that some people choose not to know what goes into their cocktail, especially the post-modern cocktails. With a great bartender, the deliberations can go in many existential directions other than the making of the drink itself.

  The next awareness is the advent of the drink as it is delivered to our place at the bar or at a table following the deliberations, the moment when the drink leaves the bartender and is transferred to us and, in all its elegance, it exists then for us and for us alone.

  Part of this awareness is the careful delivery by the bartender of a brimful glass, without spillage, without theatre, but with ceremony.

  Ideally, for the advent, the coaster will be neutral. A garish advertising coaster can spoil this moment. I do not agree with Voltz that it is safer to carry one’s own plain or favourite coaster to a bar.

  A plain paper napkin, which Voltz and other Americans call a ‘bev nap’ – beverage napkin – delivered with the drink is one of the good innovations of the American drinking culture. It is for the wiping of the mouth, the blotting of lipstick, for wiping condensation from the base of the glass, for use in case of spillage, and, for some, a place to enfold the olive pip out of sight.

  As you know, I do not usually mix with people who indulge in match or bev-nap games. For anthropological reasons I will give an example of a bev-nap game – The Drunken Crab. Take a paper napkin and open it up. Twist all four points into legs. This is your crab. Now borrow a lemon or lime from the bartender and place it under the napkin and sculpt the napkin into the carapace of the crab. You could draw eyes and other features on it if you wish. Now gently roll the lime or lemon and watch the crab crawl across the bar.

  If there are more futile ways of handling loneliness, boredom or emptiness, I don’t know of them.

  The advent is closely related to the contemplation. Some would argue that it is the same phase as the contemplation. This is, the moment where we turn our gaze exclusively to the martini and appreciate it as a visual image, an archetype, a tableau, an old friend. We see the martini there on the bar or at our table as near to perfect as possible at that moment in time and circumstance and history.

  The art historian Kenneth Clark says we can enjoy a purely aesthetic sensation for only as long as we can keenly savour the smell of a fresh-cut orange – he estimates two seconds. Do not extend the contemplation much past that.

  Closely following the advent and the contemplation comes a train of feelings which in turn trigger the moment of affiliation. This is the affiliation with the martini and its long tradition referred to earlier when discussing Paglia’s idea of gesturalism. The sensation of affiliation is not always the same sensation, and perhaps never the same. For example, sometimes when I drink a martini alone I feel I am in an Edward Hopper painting, say Nighthawks in which people are sitting at a bar or a diner, late at night.

  When I mentioned this to Voltz once in the bar of the Four Seasons, he argued that ‘people don’t drink in Hopper paintings. They’re always in hotel lobbies or in their rooms – but never in bars. Hopper really isn’t the painter of the introspective drinker. You’d have to look for some French painting in the cubist style, say Leger or Braque or one of those guys.’

  ‘Look, Voltz,’ I said, ‘I apologise if I am misusing Hopper. I am talking about a mood I get when I conjure up a Hopper painting while having a drink or when it conjures me up. And by the way, I don’t see the banal negative curatorial conceptions of, say, “loneliness” in Hopper paintings, say, Hotel Room which shows a woman sitting on a bed in a chemise reading what may be the room service menu, perhaps about to order up a drink. I see solitariness. Not loneliness.’

  There’s nothing wrong with solitariness unless you don’t want it. Yes, Voltz, I do realise that the setting of Nighthawks is proba
bly a diner and not a place where you would normally expect to be served a martini. Did you know that Hopper went to Paris in 1906 when everything happening in art was happening there. When asked about this visit, Hopper said, ‘Whom did I meet? Nobody. I’d heard of Gertrude Stein, but I don’t remember having heard of Picasso at all. I used to go to the cafés at night and sit and watch.’

  The next is the elevation of the drink, an awareness of our command of the drink. This is done with three fingers and thumb on the stem; generally, the little finger should be kept in close to the other three without touching the stem, although holding of the little finger out from the drink does give a nice effeminacy or old-style femininity to the hold if you are so inclined.

  ‘Hand ostentatiously balancing garland and hem, a woman passed …’ as Charles Baudelaire once wrote.

  The taking of the drink into your hand and holding it and then the elevation of it, is both a claiming of it and a commitment to it. By taking it in hand we know that shortly we will be moved into a different sphere of self – it is a signing-on to the quest of all that the martini suggests, sponsors and lures.

  Connoisseur Huon Hooke says the weight and grip of the glass, especially through the stem, should give you the sense of ‘control’ of the glass and, perhaps, of the future relationship between yourself and the drink, a doubtful view of this most unpredictable of partnerships. A good stem also gives you control of the swirling, in the case of wine, before taking in the bouquet, and in the case of the martini, for contemplative swirling or even for frivolous twirling as well. Because of the cone shape of the martini glass it is unnecessary to put a finger under the glass to stop it slipping through your fingers.

  The next awareness is the taking in of the bouquet. The martini, as with wine, pleases the four senses – sight, smell, taste, and in the clinking of the glasses or the shaking of the ice in the mixer, hearing. You may moisten your finger and make the glass ring but this is only excusable when you are past the fourth martini; you will probably by then also have made the Drunken Crab and laughed a lot to yourself.

  Talking of bouquet, I am fond of the stories of American writer J.F. Powers who writes about priests. In a short story entitled ‘Prince of Darkness’ a priest is in the confession booth taking the confessions of a woman. Through the grille the priest smells the apple blossoms pinned to the woman’s dress but he then catches another smell: ‘At the heart of the apple blossoms another scent bloomed: gin and vermouth.’ A priest with a well-practised nose for the martini.

  The next awareness is first savouring, the sharp, cold piquancy of the first taste. This may persist for a number of sips – the martini is always sipped, never gulped or taken in mouthfuls, except on the rare occasions one might need to ‘pig out’. There are thirty-five sips in a martini, though Voltz argues that with a return to the smaller glass which exists in his wonderland of some nostalgic past, there would be twenty-two sips. In this awareness of first savouring, the martini is felt on the lips, tongue, the face and then the spirit, in what I call the kiss of the drink. If the chill and the strength and the compounding of the martini are well harmonised, there is sometimes even a small bite with the kiss of the drink, which is felt around the nerves of the face. This is a reminder of the seriousness of the martini.

  Physiologically, what takes place is a keening of the trigeminal nerve of the face and mouth. The trigeminal nerve carries sensory information from the mucous membranes of the mouth, cheek, the tongue, lower teeth. The trigeminal registers the sensory impact on the nerves of our mouth as distinct from flavour. The trigeminal nerve is the ‘touch’ of the mouth. It experiences coldness, heat, chilli, English mustard, mint, carbonation. In some gin and vermouth combinations there may be also a peppery sensation.

  The impact of the first sips of a fine martini might be compared to what is known colloquially as ‘brain freeze’ or ‘ice-cream headache’, when your head starts to stab for a few seconds after taking in something very cold. But with the martini it is not only the coldness.

  The second savouring is of flavour. Flavour is affected by the condition of the mouth and by mood. Anxiety changes flavour. Flavour comes from the interaction of five basic tastes: salty, sour, sweet, bitter and umami (identified by Professor Kikunae Ikeda in 1907) which is the flavour of protein, sometimes referred to as ‘meaty’ and which is particularly enhanced by monosodium glutamate to which it may be related. As we have discussed, the flavours of the martini are entirely botanical.

  The third savouring comes later in the drink when it has softened and lost its sharp coldness, and as our tastebuds become relaxed or slightly anaesthetised, and the taste of the vermouth is now more apparent.

  The fourth savouring is of the last sips from the drink when it has faded and warmed a little and often has a predominating olive or briny taste. The last sips belong to the olive.

  The eating of the olive will play its part somewhere in the drinking. As previously discussed it is a private matter of preference although the nature of the olive and one’s choice of olive protocol may be included in the exegesis. The exegesis (Dr Anderson’s word) is the interpretation, with others or with self, of the qualities of the drink in hand. But a warning: there quickly comes a time when the alcohol, the drink, should not be at the forefront of consciousness or conversation. Sometimes, for example, wine at a meal can be talked about for too long. The martini commentary likewise should never continue beyond the first five sips of the martini.

  Finally, after going through the softening and the fading of the drink, you should at the conclusion of the first martini be able to hear the movement of the blood through the ears accompanied by a calmness, a stillness which begins to settle on the spirit together with être bien dans sa peau – a feeling of being at home in one’s skin, as Xavier would say.

  Also after the conclusion of the first martini it is not uncommon to experience what the Japanese call aware (not the English word) which is a feeling of poignancy at the inevitable passage of time towards death. Or anyhow, some sort of poignancy. Any sort of poignancy is good. Leave a fraction of space for aware in the drinking of the first martini.

  If you are in the mood you may want to leave space also to glance at the other imps which swim in every martini – to feel the delicious bewilderment of being alive on a planet surrounded by unimaginable infinite space and unimaginable time; to experience once again the angst of living with an imperfect intelligence, and incomplete knowledge, and a consciousness prone to all weathers of the soul, and which is unable to answer the fundamental adolescent questions of our children about why we are here, why we exist; to laugh at the dangerous, nonsensical, religious narratives we concoct to handle all this; and the nature of inescapable death.

  Or you may not, as the case may be.

  And time, that takes survey of all the world,

  Must have a stop.

  Henry IV

  The second martini does not require the same ceremonial observance as the first. It is a more expansive drink and leads to a wider conversational state, or if alone, down existential passageways, through the closed doors to a secret inner library of the mind.

  You may go through momentary states of repentance and redemption. I’d trust them. You may find yourself saying, ‘My guilt is inexpressible and the situation without remedy.’ If you find yourself saying this aloud to yourself, it is advisable to take another drink and find yourself a companion or fellowship.

  And you may find that you give a thought to our times of being unloved: ‘The perpetual hunger to be beautiful and that thirst to be loved which is the real curse’, as Jean Rhys wrote. As Jean Rhys discovered, life can be quite good without a single all-consuming love. And anyhow, true love is the answer for about half the population for half the time. Many husbands and wives feel unloved. But I wouldn’t use Jean Rhys or myself as life models.

  What is a clubbable condition of mind? Conversation should attempt wit (failed wit is fine); there should be a curious anecdote; so
me carefully carried new information from the work of the day; a newly reasoned position on the affairs of the world, or a surprising relinquishment of a long-held position; or the sharing of angst in a novel or humorous way. The mischievous act of gossip-telling, as well as its content, always confirms to me the exhilarating frailties of the human condition.

  I have found there are those whose company brings out the truth and those who deter the truth, as there are those whose company magically increases our vocabulary and unlocks our knowledge and our wit. When the stimulation of good company is combined with alcohol, the alcohol itself behaves differently. Other things must be released by the body – adrenalin, serotonin – for alcohol to be at its best. Mirth is always welcome.

  I become sad about the imperfections of life most when I hear myself failing my own sought-for human exchanges at the cocktail hour, especially when my conversation becomes intellectually unsafe, reckless in an uncreative way. The martini, however, helps correct failings or obliterates them.

  I suppose there is the daily question of whether to drink or not to drink. With whom to drink. To what end? To advance a project or to just play the fool or both. We didn’t plan our days when younger. The day ‘unfolded’. I don’t think I had a forward planner or diary. Things just happened without foresight. We were less discriminating about our company, I seem to recall, and drinking was a way of washing the blood off our togas.

  A Typical Martini Exchange

  Nearly every time I mentioned this book to someone, they would give me a joke or a story.

  The Honourable Gordon Samuels told me this one.

  A nun comes into a bar, pulls up a bar stool, and says to the bartender, ‘I’d like a martinus straight up.’